Cloud and Shade
by Citrine
Summary: Short vignette, no slash, very light angst. Young Frodo and little Pippin in the hayfields of Whitwell, a pail of blackberries, and shadows of things to come.


The sky was a clear, pale blue, dotted with puffy clouds, and the sun was hot and burned fiercely on the back of Pippin's neck, like a light through the burning glass Cousin Bilbo had kept on his writing desk. Heat ripples danced on the horizon, and the grass and trees were as still as a painted backdrop. The metal pail Pippin's mother had given him, with orders to fill it full of blackberries, bumped noisily against his leg. All around him the grasshoppers flew up from the long grass, and there was the sharp scent of humid earth, and over that the sweeter smell of grass seeds baking in the heat.

On the other side of the pasture hobbits with long scythes were cutting the first hay of the year. Other hobbits with hayforks were stooping and bending, and throwing huge, golden clouds of the already-dried hay into a wagon. Pippin could see his older sister Pervinca walking around and around on top, tramping down the growing mound of hay. Her bright, coppery hair was bound up in a kerchief, and over that was tied a straw bonnet to keep off the sun. He couldn't see her face clearly, but he knew she was singing as she walked. She was much happier, out in the wind and the sun, getting sweaty and covered with chaff, than she would be in the kitchen with Mam. Pippin watched her for a while with envy in his heart: Though he was a big lad all of twelve years old, Daddy had said he was too small yet to tramp down the hay. He had been forbidden to even come near the field where they were still cutting, for fear he might get in the way of the scythes, not even to fetch Daddy the whetstone, or bring a bucket of cool water to the workers. A faint sound of song came to him on the still air. Daddy was there, bending his back with the hired-hobbits. Cousin Frodo was there, too, as strange as it seemed for a well-off gentlehobbit like himself to be slaving away in the hot sun.

"I'm afraid you picked a poor time to come a-visiting," Daddy had said the day he arrived. "There'll be precious little time to sit with a pipe with the haying coming on."

But Frodo had only laughed. "Then I'll lend a hand and we can chat in the field! I'm no stranger to hard work, you know, no matter how fine I may look now. I helped with the haying and the harvest more than once at Brandy Hall."

Daddy had given in easily enough. It meant one more hand to help, and one he wouldn't have to fill with silver pennies when the work was done, and Mammy was happy to have Frodo there, as well. His visits to Whitwell, never very frequent to begin with, were almost nonexistent since he had become sole Master of Bag End. Pippin wondered sometimes if Frodo was lonely, rattling around in the big smial all by himself. It made him sad that Bilbo had gone away, but mostly because he reckoned Frodo missed him very much. Bilbo had always seemed so very old, and wise, and remote that Pippin couldn't really say the same for himself. Pippin's deepest regret was that he hadn't seen Bilbo disappear in a cloud of smoke, as Merry had told him later-he had been sound asleep in his father's lap, worn out with fun and fireworks and good food. Well, he had been just a little hobbit then, and prone to napping at the wrong moments. Now he could probably manage to stay awake all night if he was allowed to do so. _If_ he was ever allowed. Pippin sighed heavily, and wondered why it seemed to take so terribly long to grow up.

The blackberry brambles grew thickly along the edge of the pasture, shaded by a wide strip of trees. The canes were so burdened with fruit that there was enough for ten hobbits, and the berries looked like dark jewels among the green leaves. Pippin's mouth fairly watered at the sight of them, and he crammed it full before he dropped a single berry in the pail. The tart juice tasted better than wine (not that he had ever tasted wine,) and the seeds crunched pleasantly between his teeth. Purple dribbles ran down his chin and splotched his shirt. Merry would have laughed at him for being such a greedyguts if he had been there, but he was far away in Buckland.

Pippin's rapid picking and eating motions slowed nearly to a stop. He missed Merry terribly. He hadn't seen his favorite cousin in ever so long, and now that Merry was a big lad in his tweens, with more chores to do, and his own pony, and giggly lasses following him about everywhere, he seemed doomed to see him less and less often. Oh, he knew that there would be the usual trips to Buckland for various birthdays, and parties and dances in Tuckborough after Harvest, and he would see plenty of Merry on every occasion, and he would have an even longer visit with Merry at Yule. But he was only twelve, and the days and weeks went by so slow, and it was so hard to wait. Merry might even find some new friends in the meantime and forget all about his pesky little Took cousin. (Here Pippin's bottom lip curled a little, and he rubbed his eyes with one purple-stained hand.)

The pail was full and the aftertaste of the berries was sour in his mouth. Pippin began to notice the midges that had risen from the damp undergrowth to devour him, and the blackberry thorns that had made ladders of stinging scratches on his arms. Pail in hand, he turned and walked out into the sun, and as a lark swooped low over his head, his unhappy mood lifted and was blown away. The day was too warm and golden, and life was really too good to feel sad for very long. It was silly to think that Merry wasn't missing him, too, something fierce, and there was always the chance that he would look up one morning and see Merry riding down the lane. Until then, he had Frodo for a while, and while he was really too old to be very exciting he was very kind and funny, and eternally patient in the face of Pippin's endless questions, and he did know some very good stories.

Pippin stopped to watch the workers again. Far across the field one of the hobbits, his shirt sweated through, paused and leaned heavily on his hayfork. He was taller and somewhat thinner than the others, and when he took off his hat and swiped an arm across his forehead, Pippin saw his dark hair and knew it was Frodo.

Pippin waved at him. "Frodo! Hullo, Frodo!"

His small high voice must have sounded like the piping of a bird, but Frodo heard him and looked up. He smiled and lifted his hat, then swept it down to make a bow. Pervinca saw Frodo bending and with a thrust of her arms and a kick of her foot, buried him in an avalanche of golden-green hay. Frodo retaliated with a fistful of chaff, although Vinnie was nearly out of his reach on top of the hay-wagon. Good-natured laughter drifted over the field and the hobbits around Frodo took time out to egg them on, some even joining in the battle. Pippin laughed until he fell on the ground. Frodo finally made a leap and managed to catch 'Vinnie's heel, causing her to shriek, but then Daddy barked at them for their foolishness and the show was over. Frodo brushed the chaff from his hair, shook his fist at 'Vinnie, then winked at Pippin and clapped his hat on his head. The wagon creaked into motion, the ponies stamped and jingled their harness, and the hobbits bent to their work.

Pippin pursed his lips and made a rude noise, then threw himself back in the long grass. Cousin Frodo had said he wasn't too fine for a little honest labor, and Daddy was surely holding him to his word. Work, work, work. Frodo would probably never visit the Tookland again, or at least not in summer. Pippin hoped Frodo wouldn't be too worn out to tell them a story before bed. A dreadful one, he hoped, with Goblins and trolls, and Elves, and lots of battles, although his sisters would no doubt beg for something soppy and sweet, with lots of sad partings. Pippin shuddered and ate a few blackberries to get the taste of romance out of his mouth, then leaned back and laced his hands over his chest, studying the fat white clouds drifting lazily by overhead.

Though all was hot and still down below it was quite windy up above, and the clouds were hurrying. Pippin decided that one greyish cloud, tattered around the edges must be an old ewe, and the whiter bits behind her were the spring lambs. Another cloud-shape was close on their heels, and it looked something like a big hobbit with a crook driving them forward, rather stout and broad in the shoulders, like Frodo's gardener. There was a rearing pony speckled with dark spots, like Merry's new pony, Dapple. There was a forest, and there a river, and oh, mountains, look at the mountains, Merry! Row after row of them...

_Pippin drew in his breath as the mountains gave way to an enormous plain of tall grass, and at the end was a great, white city climbing up and up, jutting out from the mountain like the prow of a ship. Cloud-Pippin was being held in strong arms on the back of a swift horse, going toward it, being carried away from something...someone! Merry! Merry was somewhere far away, in another world, another life, out of reach. Boom, boom, the drums rolled and dark armies crawled like ants toward the city as great fires leaped up, and a figure shining like a star stood before a shattered gate. Afraid, afraid, madness behind and terror ahead, and he was so small and alone. What could he do? Helpless sorrow swept over him as he held an older, terribly changed Merry in his arms, on the wet cobblestones of a street where the gutters ran with bloody water. Pippin watched the light of Merry's eyes flicker and fade, like a dying candle flame, and his lips begged soundlessly help me, Pippin. And drums rolled again and now Pippin stood clutching a sword in one white-knuckled hand, and there was not even air enough to cry out as a great weight crushed him to the ground. Pippin gasped as it was rolled away, and he felt rough boards under his feet. Gulls were calling overhead and a pale Frodo with haunted eyes put his arms around him, and kissed him._ Dear Pippin._ Frodo turned and walked away into the air, onto a ship built of white clouds and floated away, smaller and smaller, going, going, gone forever._ Pippin_. Pippin!_

"Pippin! I say, Pippin! Peregrin Took! Wake up!"

Pippin opened his eyes, confused and nearly blinded by the sudden white-hot blaze of sunshine and sky. Frodo was standing over him, the sun behind his shoulder and his face shaded by the brim of his hat. Pippin could tell he was cross, and he smelled strongly of work-sweat, dust, and hay. "Come along now and get up. We've been looking everywhere for you, and we can't sit down to our luncheon without you. Couldn't you hear us calling?"

Pippin blinked, then he put his hands over his face and wailed. Frodo was alarmed and knelt down next to him, and Pippin threw his arms around him. Frodo knew a bit about dealing with the whims and changeable moods of young children, a survival lesson learned from having spent the better part of his own childhood elbow-to-elbow with Merry and various other young cousins at Brandy Hall. He hugged Pippin and patted his back. "Ah, now, what's all this about?"

"You left me," Pippin wept. "You went away on a ship in the clouds and left me alone."

Frodo laughed in relief. Well, at least he knew now Pippin hadn't trod on a snake or something. Bad dreams were something he could reckon with. He put his hands on either side of Pippin's small red face and wiped away the tears with his thumbs. "There, there. It was just a bad dream, Pippin-lad." Frodo noticed the purple stains on his chin and his shirt, the well-nibbled pail of blackberries, and the beginnings of a deep, red flush across Pippin's cheeks. "Too much sun and overripe fruit," he muttered. "This was no place for a nap! You've fairly roasted yourself, sleeping out here in the sun."

The salt taste of the sea was in Pippin's mouth, and he still felt a fading pain under his heart, like the echo of a great grief and loss. "Don't leave me," he said, still half in his dream.

Frodo was sitting flat in the grass with Pippin across his lap. The word _never_ was on his lips, but a strange feeling came over him and closed his mouth. Words had power, Frodo knew, both to harm and to heal, and one should never make a promise lightly. Frodo patted Pippin's knee. "Now I couldn't possibly get up and go anywhere with an enormous hobbit like you sitting on me, could I? Great heavens, you'll beat the Bullroarer if you keep growing at this rate." He reached around to the seat of his breeches, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped Pippin's wet eyes. "There now. Let's make you presentable. Can't bring you in looking like this, your mother will think a fox has been after you."

Pippin rubbed his eyes with his balled-up fists and giggled a little. Mam had a mortal (and well-founded) fear of foxes, who would snap up a little hobbit-child as quickly as they would a pheasant or young rabbit.

"There's a good lad," Frodo said. "Feeling a bit better now?"

Pippin nodded. "I'm hungry."

"Then we had best get back before your dad feeds our share to the pigs," Frodo said. He took off his hat and plopped it on Pippin's head. It was far too big, and only the tips of Pippin's ears kept it from slipping over his face entirely. Frodo gently pushed Pippin off and rolled to his knees, patting his shoulder in invitation, and Pippin climbed on his back, pail in hand. "Up you go, my boy! Chicken pie, and good bread and butter and jam, and blackberries and cream for afters if we hurry, warm river-water and hard, dry bread if we don't."

Pippin laughed out loud at this empty threat. No one ever left Eglantine Took's table hungry, no matter how late they might arrive. "Then let's run!"

"In this weather?" Frodo laughed, but he started off at a quick jog. It felt good to have Pippin-lad's well-loved and familiar weight at his back, even with the bony knees digging into his ribs. Pippin's free hand, hanging around Frodo's neck, reached up to pat his cheek, and Frodo turned his head to place a loud kiss into the small, damp palm. Frodo tasted salt and good Shire earth on his skin, and the sweet, sharp tang of dried berry juice. Pippin put his sharp chin on Frodo's shoulder and yawned in his ear. A wind came up unexpectedly and lifted his hair, cooling the sweat on his brow.

_Storm's on the way,_ Frodo thought, glancing up at the clouds. All the green grass bent over suddenly with the freshening breeze, rippling and turning silver under the sun, like the sea.

The end

Author's note: My deepest apologies for any wacky formatting you may find on this. QuickEdit feature continues to laugh at me and keeps eating any changes I attempt to make to documents once they're uploaded.. Thanks for your patience.


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